On forgiveness
The creek that day was warm enough to feel your toes, but cold enough to make you yelp if you dunked your plumbs. I knew the bass would be spawning soon, so I drifted crayfish patterns under Boogle Bugs and picked apart the bittersweet water on my way upstream. The winter storms that year were the worst in a while, so there was plenty of new structure to navigate. With one eye on my line, my other wandered, searching for a familiar sign among all the new neighbors. A hawthorn poked me in the shoulder, warning me to watch my back cast. A moccasin basked on a mountain laurel branch, both naked. Wisteria mocked azalea as it hogged all the bumble bees in the tree canopy. I was eager to take it all in, but hopeful to find one treasure in particular that I knew would reassure me that spring time was really here. Atamasco Lily.
A freshly fallen tulip tree had slowed the rushing water enough to make a nice little sand flat that was covered in fish. I caught several nice bass and sunfish, and watched a few gar roll around in the sprouting water willow. I thought about how in a few weeks that tulip tree would probably be gone, with nothing but chainsaw scars in the stump to remember it by. Years of education in ecology had made me a pessimist. I ducked under the fallen branches where the water was deeper, and let out a pathetic yelp. The lilies wouldn’t be much farther upstream, and I was so looking forward to visiting with them.
As I waded up past the dog leg pool to the gently sloped banks where I had come for years to pray, I noticed a horrible change. The property had been developed since my last visit, and the trees that once shaded this pool had been mulched. The rich riparian soil that should have been decorated with lilies was now covered in rip rap to prevent the inevitable shear and erosion of future floods. I scaled the bank, searching desperately for those delicate white flowers. I cursed and gnashed my teeth as I searched, boiling with anger. My sanctuary was razed by these hideous, greedy vandals who couldn’t see the water from their outdoor kitchen with a flatscreen TV. These new neighbors were not welcome.
The blanket of blooms that I yearned for all winter long was reduced to one flower, choking in the mulch. I cried ugly angry tears. I called Alex. I had kept this place secret to protect the solitude that made it so special, but I needed somebody to know what I had lost. I wanted someone to hear my mourning.
Just a few months earlier, Alex’s family nearly lost their own sanctuary. An arsenist burned the church she grew up in, causing millions of dollars of fire and smoke damage. I joined them for Easter service, and we winced at the blackened walls covered with tarps. The new pastor’s sermon was slightly scornful, but ended with forgiveness. Today, the church is mostly restored, and I have hope that the lilies will come back once I convince the landowners to replant their riparian zone. But first I need to forgive them, which is not something I would have ever considered had I not fallen in love with the grace of my fiancée and her beautiful Christian family.
